


A Touch Of Magic

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, F/F, Female John Watson, Female Sherlock Holmes, Femlock, Lesbians, Magical Realism, Romance between two broken people, Sherlock is a witch, Wasn't sure how to tag that, Witch!Lock, known as Jane, obv, witchlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8492077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: (IMPORTANT UPDATE: You can see my Touch of Magic Moodboard here: http://pin.it/WKW1NABIt includes my Sherlock, my Jane, Baker Street, and some of my models for Sherlock and Jane's clothes. I will update it periodically.)(This is what I'm doing to deal with the election.) Madam Hudson, her professional name, passes away just before this story starts. She leaves her flat to a relative in her will, meaning that Sherlock is getting a new neighbor.Jane is just back from active duty, well, just discharged, well, just out of hospital. Everything that made sense in her life is now past tense. Fantastic. She does, however, get a letter telling her she inherited a flat in mid-London. Too good to be true?With a struggling apothecary and a thriving side business involving morally grayish spells, Sherlock is exactly where she wants to be. With nothing to look forward to but the possible friendship of the strange new woman, Jane is the rock thrown in the pond.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts).



A month into her stay in the smallest flat she'd ever inhabited, and three months until she would run out of enough pension to pay for it, Jane received her first bit of proper mail. She wasn't sure what to think, as the return address was that of a solicitor, so she opened it before her mind could fill in false blanks.

'Dear Dr Watson,

We are writing to tell you about your presence in a will. -'

The letter went on to tell her that she had inherited a flat in central London from her aunt, who had passed away that month. A flat. A free flat. The only problem was, she didn't have an aunt.

After hesitance and much deliberation, she called her brother Harry, waking him despite the late hour, and asked him if he had any idea what it was about.

"You're getting a flat? What the hell is she giving me?" Harry said, obviously hung over and crabby.

"So you do remember her," Jane pressed.

"Well...sort of. She was mum's sister. Kind of weird, into crystals and spells and all that. Dad didn't like her, so she never really came round. Have you seen the flat? Does it have a sofa? I could really use a sofa, Janey," Harry all but pleaded.

"I'm sure there'll be something coming for you in the mail," Jane said, uncomfortable with the direction in which the conversation was heading; the direction it always headed.

"Janey," Harry echoed.

"If there's a sofa," Jane said, defeated and thinking about how she didn't even have a bloody sofa to call her own, "you can have it."

"Unless it smells," Harry added.

Jane sighed and held her head in her hands. "Yeah, well, ringing off now."

The line clicked and Jane called the solicitor to set up a meeting. She was surprised to find out she would be able to see the flat that day, and move in the next, if she liked. She rang off and pulled on her shooting jacket and her shoes, looking back at the desk and closing the laptop.

"Alright, then," she said to herself as she walked down the stairs and out into the cold autumn air.

_____

"You're getting a neighbor," Mycroft said, sitting back in his oversized chair and waiting for the fallout.

There was a long silence on the line before Sherlock sighed and then groaned. Even with the grainy video of the shop, Mycroft could tell he was put on speakerphone. He always hated being on speakerphone.

"What are you talking about?" 

"The woman upstairs-" Mycroft began.

"She had a name," Sherlock interrupted.

"Madam Hudson," Mycroft indulged, using the woman's professional name, "has bequeathed her flat to a relative."

"Nonsense," Sherlock shot back, strong-arming her dark curls into a knot high on her head. "She didn't have relatives. I would have known. They would have visited."

"Estranged," Mycroft explained flatly.

Another pause, Sherlock thinking, and an intake of breath. "I'll just have to resurrect her. The relative can't move in if she's still here."

And, there it was. Exactly what Mycroft had been expecting. It was now only a question of whether he should try to sugarcoat the memory or go for the jugular and get it over with.

"I'm heading to the graveyard now," Sherlock said, marching to the front door and stepping into her Wellies, the mobile stuck in her bra.

Ah, Mycroft thought, mind made up, then. "You do remember how well it went last time you resurrected something, don't you, Sherlock? The leaking. Redbeard was never quite the same, was she?"

"How dare you- I was a CHILD! I'd hardly mastered my powers at thirteen!" Sherlock shouted, wrestling her greatcoat on and scowling murderously even as a nervous flush moved up her neck.

"What will you do if she isn't right? It won't be like bringing a dog to the vet, Sherlock," Mycroft continued. "Are you prepared to murder her to put her out of her misery?"

"You're an arsehole!" Sherlock spat back.

"I'm the voice of reason," Mycroft countered.

"Reason has no part in my life. Reason bends to my will. Reason-"

"The relative is ex-army. A doctor," Mycroft interrupted. "Might be good to have around, what with the...frequency of your accidents."

In the shop, Sherlock paused at that and sat back down, boots squeaking. In all honesty, she had no idea how to go about resurrecting a HUMAN. She missed Mrs H horribly, but there was really nothing to do about it but grieve. Once again, she felt powerless. It was the worst feeling in the world, made her stomach turn. 

She'd spent so much of her life feeling powerless, and she was finally beginning to feel that she was in control. 

Death, of course, didn't care about power. It took what it wanted, the powerful and the powerless alike. 

"How old?" Sherlock asked, hoping the doctor was senile. She had no interest in interacting with men, let alone virile ones.

"Thirties," Mycroft answered. "Just back from active duty. Injured in combat. Bit of a shut-in."

Some bit of curiosity turned in Sherlock's mind at the description, but she pushed it down.

"We'll see about that," she grumbled, ringing off and going back to one of her concoctions, boots and coat still on.

_____

Mycroft relaxed back in his seat across town. It had gone about as well as he had thought it would. He knew it was a bit soon for Sherlock, but it was close to too late for Jane. The woman was spending much too much time holed up in that bedsit with her gun. 

"Anthony," he called.

The man popped his head in the door, though he didn't look up from his mobile.

"Meet this Jane Watson as soon as possible," Mycroft said, getting up to look out the window. "This needs to move along."


	2. The Woman On Fischer Lane

[My inspiration for this story's 221 Baker Street ](http://obligatorysherlockblog.tumblr.com/post/152971285819/my-inspiration-for-the-building-in-my-new-sherlock)

 

Jane had a half hour before she was to meet the solicitor at the flat. She decided to go ahead of time and spend a little while checking out the neighborhood. She got all the way down the street before she realised she'd forgot her cane.

The pain came and went; that was the problem. Sometimes she'd be fine for hours on end, and others she would hardly be able to stand up from a chair without it shooting through her like lightning.

She turned around and started walking back, the act of thinking again about the cane bringing on a dull ache.

"Don't think about it," Jane ground out, teeth gnashing from agitation.

A man grinned at her on her way back into the building and she stared daggers. The last thing she needed was some idiot trying to flirt with her while she grappled with a newly discovered mental-health issue. 'You wouldn't even want me,' she thought, pushing past him and keeping her chin held high.

Once she had the cane back in hand she shuffled back down the stairs, forgetting her earlier light mood at the prospect of free housing. Her mobile buzzed in her pocket as she made it below ground and onto the tube, but it was only Harry, and she did not want to speak to him, not in the least. She stood, though her leg was shouting at her to sit, not wanting anyone to start up a conversation.

It happened sometimes. Her therapist said it was because she was 'obviously military', and people were curious about the cane. And it was probably true; she still kept her hair up in the tight bun she had since she had joined, taking the trouble of straightening it every morning for some semblance of order. That part was not her idea, but one that was pushed on her for years by her father. He'd always tried to reform her, always pushed for her to be more acceptable. In the end, she was just herself, and he was disappointed.

She got off at the stop nearest to Baker Street, remembering the directions she had looked up before she left the flat, and stumbled back into the light, jostled this way and that by her fellow passengers.

And then...she couldn't find the damn street. She knew the name of the one before it and the one after, and the bloody cross street, but there was a street in between that didn't fit. Fischer Lane. She figured, as time was getting away from her, that she had better eat her pride and ask directions from someone in one of the shops.

The first she passed was a bakery brimming with people. She paused before the door, but really didn't feel like that sort of sensory overload.

The next was a coffee shop that was shuttered and closed for renovations, the renovators giving her strange looks as she scowled her way along.

And that was when she came across it; a building painted an almost blinding black, and overflowing with plants. She tried to look through the front window of the shop, but leaves and vines and peculiar flowers clogged the view. The sign above the door, carefully printed gold on black, said open, so she hobbled her way in, stepping over plants along the way and cursing under her breath.

"Yes, what do you-" a resonant voice began.

Jane looked up and the spindly woman behind what looked like a medical work table stood to her full height and cocked her head to the side. She was stunning, skin dark as coffee and eyes to match that surveyed Jane viciously from head to toe. Jane swallowed thickly and leaned on the cane.

"Just back from service, I see. Tell me," the woman said, coming closer and squeaking along the way due to her boots, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Jane bristled at that and looked around, feeling as if perhaps she was on a hidden camera show. "Afghanistan," she replied, "but how did you-"

The woman's fierce stance loosened a bit and she smirked. "You know the answer to that yourself. You all but ooze army. Severe hairstyle that takes time to manage, clothes nearly tactical in nature, eyebrows tamed perfectly, but minimal makeup, and the cane. Everything about you is utilitarian. Now for where you were deployed; tan on the face where sunglasses were worn on a regular basis tells me that you've seen a lot of sun, so, Afghanistan or Iraq. I went with Afghanistan, and I just happened to be right."

The word cane had turned Jane's stomach sourly, but she was so overwhelmed by amazement at the end that it didn't seem to matter. "That was..."

The woman looked down and away.

"Amazing," Jane finished.

"Really? You think so?" the woman asked.

Jane couldn't help but beam at her. God, she was gorgeous. "Absolutely. Just...astounding. Why? What do people usually say?"

"You were prettier before you opened your mouth," the woman said, causing them both to chuckle. She took the gloves she'd been wearing off and walked around the table to hold her hand out to Jane. "I'm Sherlock."

"Jane...just Jane," Jane said, stumbling through it and taking Sherlock's hand. 'Not captain Watson anymore,' she thought.

"That's not all of it, though," Sherlock said, not releasing Jane's hand, and moving closer.

"Doctor Jane Watson," Jane amended, eyes fixed on Sherlock's plump bottom lip. "Formerly of the Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock breathed, it seemingly fragile in the scant space between them. "A pleasure to meet you."

Jane took a deep breath when Sherlock finally let go of her and took a step back. She looked around the inside of the building nervously, feeling on razor's edge after an interaction so intense.

"What is this place, then? Some sort of-" she asked, forgetting completely why she had entered.

"Apothecary," Sherlock replied, watching Jane take everything in, with the nagging feeling that she was missing something.

"Apothecary," Jane murmured.

She had thought bookstore, as the room was filled with the things; shelving reaching the ceilings on every wall. The only place without books was the front window. She hadn't ever been into an apothecary before, but now that the word was out it couldn't be denied. Books and odd plants and dark things in jars, and Sherlock was working over a Bunsen burner, something bitter bubbling away.

"Do you-" Jane began.

"I have a salve for your wound, but I'm afraid it won't help the leg," Sherlock said.

"Nothing will help this bloody thing," Jane growled, swallowing and starting over. "It's alright. I have some Salonpas for the shoulder."

Sherlock opened a large drawer and rifled through it, coming out with a nondescript glass jar and handing it over. Jane held it up to the light. It was filled with an opaque gel of some sort.

"Works as a muscle rub as well," Sherlock said, confused as to why she wanted so badly to help the woman.

Jane opened it and smelled it, letting her eyes slide closed, and Sherlock watched as her eyelashes fluttered. It was, for a moment, as if she were dreaming.

"It's like my childhood," she choked out after a second, voice coming out strained around a ball of emotion.

"Well," Sherlock replied, without any heat, "that is rather the point."

"The point," Jane seemed to agree for a second. "Wait. The point of the muscle rub is to remind me of my childhood?"

Sherlock nodded. "That particular one, yes. I thought you might like it."

Jane smiled at Sherlock as if she were to most peculiar thing in the whole wide world, shaking her head slightly. "Well, it worked. What do I owe you?"

It was at that very moment that someone walked in the open door. A tall man with broad shoulders and a strong chin. A tall man whose eyes were glued to his mobile. Sherlock's own eyes rolled back in her head so hard her whole head bobbed for a moment.

"Sherlock," the man asked, "what have you gone and done to the street sign?"


	3. Magic

Sherlock was shouting now and gesticulating. "What do you care about the sign? Did he really pull you into all this? Did Mrs H even have a nephew?"

Jane looked back and forth between the two, trying to understand what exactly was going on. She was about to excuse herself, wanting nothing less than to get out of the way of the oncoming shrapnel, when the man turned to her and looked up from his mobile.

"Dr Watson," he said, shutting Sherlock right up, mid-complaint, "I'm surprised to see that you've found the place. Shall we look at the flat?"

At that, all three fell silent; the man waiting for a response, Sherlock struck dumb with her mouth hanging open, and Jane, stuck playing catch-up.

"Sorry, are you my aunt's solicitor?" Jane asked, eyebrows pulled tight and eyes flitting between Sherlock and the man.

"Anthony Wright," the man replied, finally pocketing the mobile and holding a hand out.

"Wait...so this is Baker Street? 221 Baker Street? I could have sworn that the-" Jane tried.

"Misunderstanding," Sherlock croaked, licking her lips and shooting Anthony a death stare.

"Misunder-" Jane tried again.

"The flat," Sherlock said, linking arms with Jane unexpectedly and leading the way to the dark stairway near the back of the shop.

Jane allowed herself to be led, if only to feel the warmth of the strange woman pressed at her side, and kept her mouth shut.

"She never mentioned you," Sherlock said as they walked into a small hallway and continued up, Anthony on their heels.

Jane felt as if her brain had gone through a blender. Sherlock's fingers on the inside of her wrist, seemingly feeling for a pulse, were driving her a bit batty and even her tongue refused to play along, the next uttered word coming out warped. "What?" 

"Your aunt," Sherlock clarified, walking Jane into a large sitting room and pulling away quickly to observe her.

"Estranged," Anthony said from several steps behind, eyes back on his mobile.

"I didn't remember she existed," Jane admitted, taking in how like the shop the sitting room was. "Did she own the apothecary?"

"She sold it to me when she knew she was going to pass away," Sherlock said, going to open a window. "It's mine now. You didn't inherit anything to do with it."

"That wasn't what I...was she ill for a long time?" Jane asked, coming to the conclusion that the woman she didn't remember had been a friend of Sherlock's.

Sherlock shook her head, hands clasped behind her back. "Oh, no. She tripped on the stairs and died on impact."

And there was that spinning feeling again. "H-how did she know she was going to-" 

"Psychic. Obviously," Sherlock replied, watching Jane with a piercing gaze.

"Obviously," Jane drawled back.

There was a presence at her side and Jane was finally pulled from Sherlock's orbit long enough to fill out some basic paperwork, and thank the man for...well, she supposed, for showing up. The whole time she was doing so she could see Sherlock out of the corner of her eye. It shouldn't have been strange, but the woman stood there so perfectly still that the impression became that of stone. Marble. It made Jane uncomfortable.

When Anthony eventually took his leave, letting Jane know she could move in that second if she wished and handing her a copy of the paperwork, Sherlock wilted dramatically. Jane watched as she slumped into an overstuffed chair, one devastating leg draped over one of the arms, and found herself wondering what on earth she was meant to do.

"I thought you were going to be a man," Sherlock said, eyes closed and head rolling back and forth as if to get out a crick in her neck.

Jane cocked her head to the side, but said nothing. (What was there to say?)

"Miscalculation on my part," Sherlock added, though without a trace of humility.

"I'd say so," Jane replied, shifting on her feet and noticing for the first time that she'd forgot her cane in the shop.

"Well," Sherlock said dramatically, pulling out the word and punctuating it with a raise of her eyebrows and the reemergence of that intelligent stare, "aren't you going to sit?"

Jane's jaw clenched as she took the seat opposite. 

"Say something," Sherlock murmured, slipping back into the previous relaxed state, arms hanging like overly cooked asparagus.

"Sorry?" Jane asked with a snort.

Sherlock shrugged. "Anything. I'm bored."

"What was he on about? The street sign thing," Jane said letting her legs fall akimbo as she actually began to relax herself. Which was strange, as she rarely was able to relax around anyone. She wondered on that while Sherlock took a long breath, and figured it was because the woman's eyes were again closed and her face was pointed towards the ceiling.

"I changed the name on the street sign so you wouldn't find it," Sherlock said calmly, and then, while Jane was gawping like a bloody fish, "well, not you-you, but the you I thought you would be. The man, as I said."

"How-"

"Magic, of course. Simple enough spell," Sherlock interrupted.

"Magic, of course," Jane replied, not at all believing the woman. Yes, she'd heard that magic still existed, but she'd never seen a tish of it. Her father was particularly vocal about what a bit of hogwash it was.

At that, Sherlock sat up like a bolt and stared at Jane, who found herself in the matching ramrod position. There was a peculiar look in her eyes and a grin on her face. It occurred to Jane that she probably got that reaction from most people when she mentioned magic.

"How's the leg?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward and touching her chin with the tips of her fingers, hands in a tight prayer position.

"Fine," Jane stumbled. "It comes and goes."

"It won't come again," Sherlock said, eyes widening in glee.

"Magic?" Jane asked.

Sherlock licked her lips. "Still don't believe me?"

"Well, you did say you didn't have anything for it," Jane explained, remembering the words well, as they had hurt.

Sherlock waved her hand and sat back. "That was before I decided what to do with you."

Jane harrumphed at that, not liking the sound of it. "And what have you decided?"

"You're acceptable," Sherlock returned seriously. "Could do with a lot more education on magic and the like, but that is a rather big blind spot with most of the population. Tea?"

Jane agreed to tea, as she never found herself in the mood to do otherwise, and was about to say something scathing when Sherlock rose again with that almost musical grace. She was beautiful, and Jane was enamored, like it or not. 

She followed Sherlock and opened the fridge. Empty, as she'd expected, even though the cupboard seemed to be stocked well enough.

"There's no milk," Jane pointed out, wondering if there was any sugar to be found.

Sherlock stayed silent and got down two mismatched mugs from above the stove. Jane stood as close as appropriate and watched the water be poured, and tea bags placed, and sugar dispensed.

"I drink mine with milk," Jane said.

"Well, we're out," Sherlock shrugged. "You can go to Tesco later."

Jane snorted and took the mug. "Can't you magic some up?"

A smile curled Sherlock's lips and she leaned close enough for Jane to smell that biting, spicy, cologne she wore. She caught Jane's eyes and leaned down to blow across the top of Jane's tea. When she looked down Jane followed her gaze and watched the tea swirl and lighten to the preferred milky state. Her heart was beating so fast, from the proximity and the trick, that she could feel it all over.

"You're welcome," Sherlock whispered, too close for decency as her breath ghosted across Jane's lips.

Jane coughed on nothing and turned away as Sherlock went to sit again, victorious.


	4. Shameless Flirting

They sat drinking their tea in silence for a long few minutes before Sherlock spoke up again. She'd felt Jane's gaze on her but had pretended not to notice, letting the woman get her full before finally glancing up. There was something in her eyes before she glanced away, but Sherlock couldn't put her finger on it.

"You have questions," Sherlock said, drawing Jane's eyes back to her and holding them that time.

"Yes. Where do you live?" Jane asked, voice sounding unused.

And Sherlock had to smile at that, because it wasn't at all what she was expecting, which seemed to be the running gag with Jane. Jane. She rolled the name around in her mind. "221C. Basement apartment, next to the shop. Next."

"How did you know my aunt?" Jane asked, not skipping a beat.

"Her husband was up on a murder charge in America," Sherlock explained, finally pulling off her Wellie's and folding her legs beneath her, "and she came to me for help. I have a bit of a reputation."

Jane gave her a quick look that said 'I've no doubt', and Sherlock wrinkled her nose.

"You helped get him off?" Jane asked.

"Oh, certainly not. I ensured his sentence. Horrible man," Sherlock corrected.

Jane snorted a laugh, and that feeling flared up in Sherlock's chest again, the one from the shop when they'd stood close. Warm, and slithering pleasantly, and god, how it was unfurling. 

"You find that funny?" she asked, eyes on her tea.

"Don't tell me you want me to pity the death of a horrible man," Jane said, wry smile taking to her lips.

'I want to kiss those lips,' Sherlock thought. But, no, no matter how entrancing this woman was, that just wasn't going to happen. Sentiment, affection, all of it was too dangerous. Just look what happened to Mrs H.

"Hardly," she returned.

Jane licked her lips and took one last sip of tea before standing. "I'd better get my things."

"Good. I was only just thinking of going out. We can stop by your old place on the way home," Sherlock said, jumping from the chair and trotting down the stairs without another word, leaving Jane to follow.

_____

It was strange, Jane thought, walking next to each other like that; close, as though they've always been that close. They strayed from each other in Tesco as Jane went for milk and Sherlock mumbled in front of the drain cleaners, and as Jane was walking back she had to stop. Sherlock really was beautiful, hunched over the shelf and looking at the expiration date on a bottle of something far back. Jane watched as she wrangled the bottle out, and couldn't help but look away when Sherlock caught her.

"Milk," Jane said, clearing her throat. 

"Astute observation," Sherlock returned, brushing past Jane and towards the checkout.

Jane felt a blush move up her neck and prayed to god she wasn't so bloody obvious. When she joined Sherlock in the queue the woman bent to speak into her ear, humid breath prickling her skin.

"If I compliment the man behind the counter I'll walk off with this for free," Sherlock whispered.

"Bollocks," Jane said, lips already curling into an indulgent smile.

"Don't think I can?" Sherlock asked, before leaning back and unbuttoning the top three buttons of her shirt, the vee of it hinting at small breasts held tight to her body with silk.

The air was suddenly pulled from Jane's lungs, and before she could find the words to stop the whole charade, Sherlock was leaning over the counter and furrowing her brow and saying something in that husky voice that Jane couldn't make out through the rushing in her ears. The lunacy, the idiocy of it all, was that the flirting wasn't even near believable. It was too much, over the top in the way pornography portrays women's attraction. 

But...perhaps that's why it worked. Sherlock was dripping in sex and acting frail and confused, and the checker was feeling the savior, and Jane was LIVID.

She watched Sherlock leave with the solvent in hand and slammed the milk down on the conveyor belt. The checker's eyes lingered on Sherlock's back for a second before he looked back. Jane sneered at him and he quickly rang up the milk and the packet of biscuits. Jane ran her card through too quickly, twice, and finally just pressed it into his hand, cursing under her breath.

The second she was out the door, plastic bag in hand, she felt like hitting the brick wall. Sherlock was draped against the building, hands in her pockets and cigarette drooping from her lips.

"Told you so," she murmured, lit end of the cigarette bowing.

Jane stomped over and huffed out a breath, leaning against the wall as well. "Men are idiots."

"No disagreement there," Sherlock sighed.

"You weren't even being seductive," Jane added. "It was such a put-on. I can't believe he fell for it."

Sherlock's nose scrunched up and she nodded once, not exactly the most attractive move, but one that had Jane almost missing the next sentence. "May I draw your attention to your previous statement?"

Almost.

"Do you do that often? Take advantage of men for your own benefit?" Jane asked, not sure why it was bothering her so much, but feeling it tangle with the roiling attraction in her belly.

"Absolutely," Sherlock replied, tossing the cigarette to the pavement and snuffing it out with one heel of her stupidly expensive flats. "Just evening the scales," she added, before picking the bottle back up and starting off again.

Jane followed her and glowered at the cigarette. "You really should stop smoking."

"It's terrible for your health," they say at the same time.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "but I have no intention of living long enough for disease to set in."

Jane stopped on the pavement at that, and Sherlock dragged to a halt.

"Problem?" Sherlock shot over her shoulder.

"Are you," Jane replied, voice rough as she thought of her own fight with suicidal tendencies.

"People in my line of work hardly live past their forties," Sherlock interrupted, walking again.

Jane jogged to catch up. "Witches?" 

"Detectives," Sherlock corrected, and Jane realised once again that she knew nothing about the woman.

_____

Less than a hour later they were having their first fight. Jane stood with the groceries and tried to explain to Sherlock that she really didn't think it was okay to place the milk in a cadaver fridge.

She sighed and shook her head. "It has a sticker on the front that specifically says 'not for human consumption'."

"Do you honestly think the dead man's left hand will mind sharing shelf with your milk?" Sherlock replied. "Would your severed hand mind? Your liver?"

"That's not the-" Jane tried.

"Y-you could use my mini fridge," the sheepish man standing in the corner interjected.

Sherlock turned and plastered that false, cloying smile on her face. "Miles, how kind of you."

The man blushed and Jane felt her jaw tightening, felt a heat under her collar. She followed the lovestruck idiot down the hall to a small storage room that doubled as a staff lounge and took pity on the man. He was so obviously enamored by Sherlock and Jane was starting to tire of the way Sherlock could manage it. 

"It's just here," Miles said, kneeling and pulling frostbitten frozen dinners and soupy expired veg from the box and onto the floor. 

"You really don't have to-" Jane said, taking pity on him immediately.

"It's fine! Should have cleaned this out ages ago. It's difficult, you know; I'm single and hardly have time to cook for myself. And...and it's just me down here most of the time. It's fine. It's nice to have company from time to time," Miles explained.

Jane handed the bag over when prompted and Miles put the things away and turned to smile nervously at her. 

"Who knows," he said, "perhaps my humor will work on live subjects."

Jane gave him a weak smile and helped him stand and toss the old food in the bin. They started walking back to the morgue and Miles shuffled along, pulling his hands into the sleeves of his jumper.

"So...how do you know Sherlock?" he asked.

Jane paused for a second to remember the whirlwind day. "She's my neighbor. New neighbor."

"Oh, you two seemed..."

"Seemed?" Jane asked.

"Close. Seemed close. Bickering like an old couple and all."

Jane laughed at that and shook her head as they walked through the door to find Sherlock mumbling to herself over a microscope, the chemical smell of the drain cleaner in the air. Jane went to sit next to her and crossed her arms. 

"We're done here," Sherlock said with a quick breath. "Come along, Jane."

Jane shrugged her coat back on and went to get the milk.


	5. A Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give a shout out to Tumblr's amazing alexxphoenix42. They sent me all kinds of wonderful femslash stories when I was worried about what to do with the sexy bits to come. WHEN THAT SEXY STUFF COMES, IT'S ALL BECAUSE OF THEM!
> 
> They also make AMAZING fic recs, and I suggest you check them out. No commissions open, at this time, but who knows what will get them back in the game.
> 
> I know my regulars aren't in the habit of bullshitting, so if you're new:
> 
> If you're reading this, and you love me, go love on alexxphoenix42.tumblr.com
> 
> If you're reading this and you've been an ass to them, please show yourself to the door and eat a dick. We've talked about people unnecessarily criticizing others who are doing their thing for free. It almost got me out of fic once. If you don't like something someone else has made, leave. You don't need to comment, you don't need to be snarky, if they're not hurting anyone, shut the hell up.
> 
> And maybe someday you'll need to use the resource they're creating, and won't it be swell that they're still around.
> 
> Care for each other and cultivate art.
> 
> Send your hate to 1234 Suqadic Ave., Idongivashit ID, 93939, US

Getting her things should have been easy. It was a phrase that kept bumping around in her head as she sat behind the desk of a detective, no, detective inspector, at the Yard.

"I can't explain it any better," Sherlock said from beside her, leaning forward and poking one long finger repeatedly in the air.

"The man was leaving the building and you just so happened to know that he was our killer? Without even seeing the case?" the tired man across from them said skeptically.

"He came to me in a dream last night. You'll find the flatmate dead," Sherlock added.

"Another dead body? On top of the three we know about? You do realise that if this doesn't pan out and you've simply gone and had your," the man paused to think and pointed at Jane, "your girlfriend here tackle an innocent man and hold him against his-"

"Neighbor," Jane interrupted forcefully. She saw the small frown crawl it's way onto Sherlock's lips, but stood with the statement. Second person in one day that thought they were 'close' like that.

A man popped his head through the door and spoke after sending Sherlock a rough frown. "Greg, you've gotta see this. We have a new dead body."

The man, Greg, let his mouth hang open for a second before nodding.

"I've been telling you for months that you should listen to me," Sherlock said, sitting back with a grin and oozing superiority.

"Yes, well...it just isn't on for us to go and consult psychics," Greg replied weakly.

"You'll be stumped when you see the body. Call me when you change your mind," Sherlock insisted, standing and nodding to the paperwork on the table in front of her. 

"Oh? And did you see that in a dream as well?" Greg asked, looking worn.

Sherlock smiled again, this time softly, and directed at Jane. "No, I just happen to have a brain, something you're utterly lacking. You've got my information. Come along, Jane."


	6. You're Mad

Jane followed Sherlock out of the building, her worn suitcase in one hand and the duffel over her shoulder. She was tingling all over from the altercation, adrenaline finally ebbing, and she was...agitated. It had been exciting, taking the man down, but the aftermath, the sitting in an uncomfortable chair and being scolded, wasn't. 

They made it half a block before Sherlock led them into an alley and stopped abruptly, turning that megawatt smile on Jane like a weapon. When she saw Jane's face, it fell, obvious guilt taking its place.

"You were quite good," Sherlock said, taking the duffle and slinging it over her shoulder, and amazingly not swaying on those damn stilettos.

"Yeah, well, wasn't exactly fun getting yelled at," Jane said, putting words to her thoughts.

Sherlock narrowed her eyes and moved closer, pushing her way back into Jane's personal space like it was nothing. Her confidence was almost comical. She hummed, it a roiling, panther's purr of a thing, and seemed to take up Jane's entire consciousness.

"Worth it, though," Sherlock murmured, that purr still somehow in the air. "Don't you think?"

"It was dangerous," Jane answered, happy to see her voice still worked.

Sherlock grinned wickedly. "Quite. Just your sort of thing, Captain."

And, Christ, if that wasn't flirting, then Jane had no idea what was bloody going on.

"Used to be," Jane admitted, spice biting at her nostrils as she pushed closer, daring Sherlock to budge.

Sherlock huffed a laugh at that. "Hardly out of practice, though. You take very good direction."

Jane shoulders slumped at that and her stance opened a bit. "You talking about how I didn't question your lunacy?"

"You took action when it was needed," Sherlock countered, smile now relaxed and natural.

And Jane couldn't help but smile back, damn it. "You're mad."

"We're made of the same cloth," Sherlock murmured, lips...

So.

Very.

Close.

"You're...mad," Jane echoed, lost in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock said something in return and backed away. Jane had been so focused on what she thought was coming next, that the words didn't make it to her ears.

"Sorry, what?" she asked, a bit out of breath.

"I said," and the smile let Jane know Sherlock had seen how taken she really was, "that now I'm going to take you home and work on that shoulder. You'll be stiff by morning if we don't do something about it now."

And, just like that, Sherlock was walking off again, heels clicking on the pavement with near ferocity.


	7. Bath

Jane stared at the street sign as the cab they were in turned back onto Baker Street. Baker. Street. The sign had said something altogether different that morning, and Jane was still getting used to the notion that magic could be done. It took her breath away a bit. She wanted to tell the cabbie to stop, and get out and touch it, touch the letters, to see that they were real.

'Would've been able to look closer if we'd just walked home,' she thought. But, no, Sherlock had insisted that they didn't do anymore damage to Jane's shoulder, and had hailed them a cab out of nowhere. (Luck, not magic, apparently. Jane had felt stupid after asking.) Now they were pulling up to a perfectly normal coloured building, and Jane was looking around for 221. It was supposed to be close.

"Jane," Sherlock said, already out of the cab and getting her luggage from the boot. "You coming?"

Jane passed some bills to the cabbie, cursing Sherlock in her mind for not paying, and hopped out. "Well, yes, but-"

Sherlock walked into the building they had stopped at, and now, Jane recognised the plants in the window. But...it was beige. BEIGE. 

"Why isn't the building black anymore?" Jane asked as she walked through the doors, nearly tripping over a fern.

Sherlock continued in and up the stairs, not even breaking pace as she spoke. "You could see that? Interesting."

Jane stood gawping for a second, it apparently being her new pastime, and then jogged up the stairs to find Sherlock going through her duffle, folded clothes landing on the floor in a pile.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked.

"Where are your pyjamas?" Sherlock asked, holding the duffle upside down and shaking as if they might just be hiding from her.

Jane felt a flush move up her neck and cleared her throat. "I, uh, I sleep in a shirt." When Sherlock's eyebrow raised and her lips curled, Jane amended. "A shirt and pants. And why are you looking for my sleeping clothes?"

Sherlock fished around in the pile and came out with a pair of gray men's boxer briefs and an old t-shirt. "You'll need non-restrictive clothing. For after your bath."

Jane simply grimaced and pulled her pants from Sherlock's hands. "Yeah, thanks. I don't need a bath."

"Nonsense," Sherlock replied, pulling Jane along by the sleeve as she made her way downstairs and finally into her own flat.

There were vines growing up the walls and the ceiling was completely covered in dark, glossy leaves. Jane took them in, along with the great amount of books piled everywhere, as Sherlock showed her into the loo. The room was small and crowded, the claw foot bathtub on one end an obvious new installation. It was massive, one gold flaked foot reaching almost in front of the toilet. The edges held orchids and ferns interspersed with the odd candle and posh shampoo. 

Sherlock bent over to plug the tub and turn on the water and Jane got an unadorned flash of her chest due to the oversized mirrors lining the wall. She looked away quickly and bit the inside of her cheek. It was just a pair of breasts, she told herself, nothing she hadn't seen before.

"I have oil for the bath," Sherlock said, leaving the room for a moment.

"Bloody bath. Take a bloody bath in some madwoman's magical claw footed tub. It'll probably wake up mid-soak and scare me to death," Jane grumbled, sitting on the closed lid of the tub with her shirt and pants in her lap.

"Here. Only a little. Wouldn't want you growing wings," Sherlock said, upon return. When Jane didn't laugh she rolled her eyes. "Not really. It's only bath oil."

"Why was the building black?" Jane asked.

Sherlock shrugged and poured some of the oil into the steaming water. "Oh, that. Some days feel like black days, don't they?"

Jane smiled at the answer, because, yes, some days did feel that way.

"I have a rub for your shoulder after the bath. Peppermint, I think. You'll like it," Sherlock said, finally turning off the taps and pulling two large fluffy towels and a shower cap from below the small sink.

Jane stood and put them with her sleepwear on the toilet lid, and then waited for Sherlock to leave. When that didn't happen, and Sherlock instead, merely got out of the way, Jane cleared her throat.

"Oh," Sherlock said, nodding, "privacy. Of course. I'll...sit outside the door."

"You don't have to wait on me, you know. This is already-" Jane tried.

"Too much?" Sherlock asked, looking crestfallen.

Jane chuckled softly and started to remove her shoes. "Generous."

Sherlock perked up at that. "Good, good. But I will sit there. I have questions."

Jane watched her leave and finally stripped, catching sight of her own shoulder in the mirrors as she slid into the bath. It was all gnarled skin and angry flesh. She hated it. 

"So, you like plants, then?" she asked, wanting to get away from her own thoughts as quickly as possible.

"Not as such," Sherlock replied, her voice changing in volume as she banged around in what had to be her bedroom.

"You sure have a lot of plants for someone who doesn't like them," Jane replied.

"They like me. Started out with one, and then the others just began showing up in my basket at the checkout. Tesco wasn't even selling orchids at the time, and yet there three of them were, price tags and all. I could hardly put them back at that point, what with their determination and all." There was a sigh and a thump as Sherlock sat back on the floor again. "That was three years ago. Mrs H didn't seem to mind, so they got to stay."

Jane was silent for a while and she heard Sherlock shifting.

"Jane?" Sherlock asked, her voice small, almost scared.

"Yeah?" Jane replied, not sure what else to say.

Sherlock sighed. "Good, just making sure you were still there."

Jane snorted and let her body slip beneath the water, but for her head. "Where would I have gone?"

"Out the window?" Sherlock asked, her voice distorted due to the water splashing.

Jane's heart swelled at that. What a strange woman. "Do people often climb from your windows mid-conversation?"

"There's a first time for everything," Sherlock mumbled, it almost lost in the slosh of water as Jane sat up.

They sat there in comfortable silence for another ten or so minutes until Jane was starting to feel the tension leave her shoulder. She let the drain go on the bath and got out, drying herself and dressing, clean towel wrapped around her waist. She set the shower cap aside and took a deep breath. When she opened the door all the way and looked down, Sherlock was staring up at her, arms wrapped around her knees and wearing blue pyjamas.

"Was the bath good?" Sherlock asked.

"Very," Jane replied, amazed she could breathe with the way Sherlock was sitting. She was like a child, small, balled up, and Jane heart ached for the fragile thing she seemed just then, the girl who was worried her new friend had climbed out the window to be rid of her. "You said you had something for my shoulder?"

Sherlock unfolded herself with unreasonable elegance and pointed to her bed before leaving the room. Jane swallowed and went to sit on the edge. She hadn't been in someone else's bed in years, each one of her dalliances during active duty taking place in pub's back rooms and cheap hotels. Now, even though it had nothing to do with sex, the sink of the mattress under her was bringing on all sorts of responses and reminding her of how close to kissing they had been earlier.

Sherlock returned with a small glass bottle and sat in the middle of the bed, cross legged. She motioned for Jane to join her and Jane did, with a sigh. She was tense again, all the good that the bath had done dissipating as she realised that she would have to remove her shirt. She regretted not putting a bra back on, but decided that if Sherlock was going to behave like this was all normal, then she was as well.

She sat exactly like Sherlock, her back to the woman, and lifted her faded RAMC tee over her head. Folding it and laying it in her lap, she tried to relax. She could smell the balm the second Sherlock opened it; peppermint and something else wafting into the room. 

"Should I massage around it?" Sherlock asked.

"Mmm," Jane agreed, hissing at the first contact. "That's bloody cold!"

"Heat, then cold. I promise it will do you some good," Sherlock said.

"Buggering," Jane grumbled, closing her eyes.

The second Sherlock started digging in with those fingers, Jane knew she was done for. It was bloody perfect. The cold meant that Sherlock could apply more pressure than Jane regularly would have allowed, and Jane could already tell that she'd spend the rest of the day as a rag doll on the sofa.

After a long pause Sherlock drew in an audible breath and spoke. "Are you sure you don't remember your aunt? What about your sibling?"

"No, I really-how do you know I have a sibling?" Jane asked.

"You were making a note of it in your phone earlier. 'Tell Harry he can have the sofa.' At the morgue," Sherlock explained.

"Oh. Yeah, Harry remembers her. A bit. Seems she didn't get on with my father," Jane replied. "Course, no one really did."

"Mrs Hudson...she was the best woman I've ever known," Sherlock said, her voice level and measured. "I thought you should know that."

"You miss her a lot," Jane said.

"I didn't want her to die. I've no one to take care of things now. There are all these...things that need doing, and-" Sherlock said.

"Perhaps I can help. I've not got a job right now. I could do things around the shop, from time to time," Jane interrupted.

"Wonderful," Sherlock said, "after dinner we'll do the bills. They're threatening to turn off the power."

"What?" Jane asked, spun by the mention of dinner, as if they were a full fledged couple or some such nonsense, and the fact that they might soon be stuck in the dark.

"I keep forgetting to pay," Sherlock explained, doing something with her thumbs that had Jane groaning in relief.

"Why don't, why don't you just do direct pay?" Jane asked, letting her body melt under Sherlock's hands.

"Never thought of that," Sherlock admitted.

Jane snorted at that. 

Sherlock continued to work wonders on Jane's shoulder and Jane was soon leaning back against her more and more.

"I could do your leg, too," Sherlock said.

"Alright," Jane found herself saying, "now, then?"

Sherlock hummed in agreement and sat back. Jane slipped her shirt back on and turned around. Sherlock sat there, posh pyjamas and silk robe, hair full and bobbing with every shift on the bed, and Jane wanted to kiss her so badly. Instead, she stretched out her leg and let Sherlock arrange it as she wanted.

"Thigh?" Sherlock asked, dipping back into the small bottle and bringing out more of the white paste.

"Yeah," Jane said, looking down to where Sherlock's hands landed and watching them move. "You should do massage."

"I am doing massage," Sherlock replied, no humor meant.

"No, like, in the shop. I'd pay for this," Jane said.

Sherlock worked her way higher and Jane steeled herself. 'You bloody asked for this,' she told herself. 'Keep it professional.'

"Did you eat with Mrs Hudson? Every meal, or something?" she asked, thinking back on the dinner comment.

"I only eat once a day," Sherlock said, and Jane believed it with how wiry she was. "We enjoyed many tea breaks, though."

Jane let her eyes close and focused on breathing normally and not moaning like she was in a bloody porno. On inch, she thought, one inch higher and I'll lose it. 

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asked, pausing.

Jane shook her head and Sherlock went on. She prodded and pressed and Jane kept it together the whole damn time. When Sherlock finally sat back, Jane allowed herself to open her eyes.

"You're aroused," Sherlock said, as matter of fact as you could get.

"What?" Jane spat, looking away.

"Your nipples have become erect and you're unconsciously rolling your hips," Sherlock said.

"It was the stuff, the stuff was bloody cold, and there's a draft," Jane replied, standing and going to gather her clothes.

Sherlock followed her, trailing behind even as she left the bedroom and started up the steps to her flat. Jane stopped her in the doorway.

"I'm going to kip for a while," she said.

Sherlock nodded. "And then bills."

"Yes, bills," Jane said, nodding and backing away.

"Alright," Sherlock replied, turning and trotting down the stairs.

Jane closed the front door to the flat that was suddenly hers, and locked it for good measure, before deciding that the least disrespectful place to have a go at herself would be the loo. She barely made it through the door before she had one hand down her pants and the other up her shirt. 

"Jesus. Jesus Christ," she huffed, pinching one of her nipples while she slid two fingers home. 

God, she needed it, needed to feel full. She added another finger, sliding them in and out and letting her head fall back with a thump. In all honesty, she wanted to find something, anything, cylindrical and just fuck herself raw. She pinched her nipple harder and fucked herself, feeling like she was so close, but not being able to go over.

She let herself remember talking to Sherlock in the alley, believed she could smell Sherlock's cologne on her skin. Remembered her words; just your sort of thing, Captain. And, oh, that did it. Dark mesmerizing eyes, plump bottom lip, and those fingers sliding up her thigh.

She came, choking on a breath and bucking and cursing, and slid to the floor.

After a while she felt her breathing settle, and washed her hands. Finally feeling more in control, she walked out into the sitting room and stumbled upon the milk. On the floor. Bugger.


	8. Touch

It was difficult to tell if the grunt and cursing was due to injury or orgasm. Sherlock pressed her ear to the door and heard Jane turn on the faucet. Orgasm. Unless, unless she'd hurt herself and was cleaning off the blood. Sherlock looked through the keyhole, the old thing was quite large, when the sink was turned off, and saw Jane pad out into the living room and collapse into her chair. 

Sherlock already thought of the monstrosity as Jane's, which was peculiar.

Jane had come out of nowhere and Sherlock was starting to think Mrs Hudson had a hand in it. She always did want Sherlock to have a friend. A friend besides her skull, at least. Had she secretly known Jane? Did she think Jane might like her? 

She watched Jane slump into the chair and wondered what it might take to get her to stay.

_____

Jane did end up sleeping, snoring away in her chair and curling in on herself when rain started to fall outside. Sherlock tiptoed inside and covered her with a blanket. She couldn't make herself walk away. Jane was...interesting. And that was the best compliment Sherlock had ever given anyone.

Sherlock finally left the room when she had got her fill, and walked down to the shop to hurry through her list of projects. She had several spells to make up, and a great deal of thinking to do.

_____

When Jane woke, the sky was dark outside and rain was slamming against the window. She pushed the blanket off her lap and went to pull on a pair of joggers. She didn't feel like wearing a bra, but she also didn't feel like being accused of arousal over the dinner table, no matter how true it was. She tossed her shirt to the floor in the loo and pulled a spare jumper out of her duffel, an old RAMC one that was faded, but still whole.

She spent a few minutes standing in front of the mirror looking at her face and trying to imagine Serrano things didn't happen. She looked, but she still didn't see herself.

_____

Sherlock sitting on a stool and pressing at the heel of her hand. Eager new beads blossomed and she hissed. Deep red and easily spilled, she'd always thought blood was quite beautiful.

"What on earth were you doing?" Jane asked out of nowhere, pulling Sherlock up out of her seat and to the stairs.

"Working," Sherlock answered, looking down at the cut.

"And?" Jane asked, pointedly.

"Suppose I leaned on my pruning shears," Sherlock explained. 

What she didn't say was that it was intentional. She only needed a bit of blood for her next spell, a bit of her own power, and the guilty party would be struck dead. (At least she knew that admitting that was a bit not good.) She'd been wondering how she could watch, and hadn't noticed Jane coming down the stairs.

"You've got to be more carful," Jane said, sitting Sherlock on the toilet lid and going through her suitcase for her med kit.

"Under the red jumper," Sherlock said, sucking on the small wound.

Jane cursed under her breath and found it, turning to Sherlock and raising an eyebrow. "Is there anything you don't know?"

"I'm not psychic," Sherlock replied mildly. "It was there when I was looking for your pyjamas."

Jane pulled out an alcohol swab and a plaster and kneeled before Sherlock, taking her hand and holding it tightly as she cleaned. "Question still stands."

Sherlock couldn't breathe just then, however. Jane's hands were sure and worn, the calluses would take Sherlock hours to deduce, perhaps a whole day if she did it by touch alone, and they were holding one of her hands. She was uncomfortable with the result; a tongue heavy and unresponsive, a mind muddled and spinning, eyes that could not be torn from where their hands were touching. 

(Jane brushing her thumb across the edge of the plaster softy to make sure it had stuck, thumb pressing against her palm.)

When she'd finally listed all the things she hated about it, she found herself able to speak. "I don't know why you're here."

Jane snorted and looked up. "I'm here because my aunt-"

"I know the logistics," Sherlock interrupted, rolling her eyes. "I just don't know the reason. Yet."

Jane sighed sat back, crossing her legs and staring up at the woman. "And," she asked, "does there have to be a reason for everything?"

Sherlock scrunched up her nose and pursed her lips, hair bouncing slightly as she tilted her head. It was if she had never been told not to make faces when she was young; everything about her was so exaggerated.

"You're staring," she said, leaving Jane's question completely unanswered.

"Dinner," Jane replied, standing and walking out of the loo. "You've got to have some takeout menus around here."

Sherlock went into the kitchen and opened one of the drawers. There were, indeed, ten or so menus, but Jane was only handed three. "These are the good ones."

"Preference?" Jane asked.

Sherlock shook her head and went to collect her unopened mail from the shop. She could still feel Jane's touch.


End file.
